


the loss is slow, for you and me

by drarryangels



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Auror Harry Potter, Casefic??, Established Relationship, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pet Names, Professor Harry Potter, Sad, Sad with a Happy Ending, Sick Character, Sickfic, Some Plot, Terminal Illness, Unspeakable Draco Malfoy, harry and draco say "well" a lot, harry cries a lot, more plot than i usually write but it's still minimal, they call each other darling and i think it's really nice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:15:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27135770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drarryangels/pseuds/drarryangels
Summary: Draco's illness began with a headache, a sore throat, an interrupted call. It began that way, four months after the curse that no one noticed, and it continued that way for six months. Six months of dying, six months of Harry watching Draco die, and six months of grief. There was no cure, no way of knowing where the curse came from or how to live on with it. So Draco abandoned his latest case from the Department of Mysteries, settled in at home, and let Harry cry all over him on the daily.So Draco was dying. He would live in peace until the end came.If only Unspeakable Wilson would stop sending Draco cryptic letters about that damn abandoned case.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 39
Kudos: 269





	the loss is slow, for you and me

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was born from a TikTok I saw on Instagram, and completely got out of my hands. I won't even link the video because this fic completely ran away from me, and now has nothing to do with the video at all. Cheers to the Drarry brain rot (thank you Bia from GWB for terming my identity in this scarily accurate way).
> 
> To Cibee: you are a shining beacon in the fandom world, and I am ETERNALLY grateful to you for betaing this fic. Your comments, cheers, and gentle corrections made my whole week (and the whole editing process) so much nicer. I appreciate you beyond the end of the world, and all the way back. This fic is for you for making me smile so much.
> 
> Many thanks to Nathan (Venereal) from the GWB Drarry Discord chat for the second pair of eyes. Your feedback helped so much, and I'm so grateful to you for taking the time to work patiently through the semi-organized dumpsterfire of my brain.
> 
> And finally, thank you to the GWB Drarry Discord server. This is (almost) the first server I've been on, and it's been nothing but fun and joy so far. Your encouragements and laughter make fandom so much more pleasant, and I'm so glad to have oodles of more time to get to know you all. Thanks for making my world just a little bit bigger. <3
> 
> I've never thanked this many people in the notes before, so. Jesus. If you've made it this far, thank you to YOU too. Go read the fic now.

It began with a headache, a sore throat, an interrupted call. 

The headache first, at nine in the morning, after Draco's morning tea. 

"Earl grey?"

"Please," Draco replied, holding his hand out as Harry passed by to trail his fingers over the edge of his waistband. "Thank you."

Harry dropped a kiss on his head and pressed the mug into his palm. "Have a great day at work, darling."

Draco smiled up at him, took a sip of his tea, stood to put his robes on, and then walked out the door. 

For November in London, it was a fairly nice morning. Gray skies, no wind, a dusting of rain. Chilly enough for a cloak, but not cold enough for the fur lined one that Harry had bought for him last December. Draco smiled at the homeless man on the corner, handed him a biscuit from his lunch box (made by Harry, of course. Draco never knew what to pack for lunch). He went on his way, took the phone booth down to the Ministry, and smiled at the woman at the guest counter who looked as if three separate finches had flown through her hair. By the time he reached the elevator to take him down to the Department of Mysteries, there was a pounding behind his skull.

"Mornin', Draco."

"Good morning, Wilson." Draco smiled at the man. Wilson's shoulders were hunched over and his eyes folded in the corners. "How was your date night with your wife?"

Wilson smiled. "Quite nice, thank you. How's Harry?"

Draco patted Wilson's shoulder. "Perfectly Harry."

"Glad to hear it," Wilson said, and Draco turned to make his way to his desk. 

Draco sat, in the same way and in the same place that he did every morning, and pushed his weight back in his rolling chair. He held his mug of tea close to his chest and smiled. By this point, the pounding had turned into a dull throb, but Draco hardly noticed. He was too busy thinking about Harry, and his earl grey tea, and his plans for the pub this evening, and also Harry. In summary, this day was to be just like every other day. The same walk to work, the same woman at the front desk, the same conversation with Wilson, the same tea, the same thoughts. In fact, it wasn't altogether unusual for Draco to have a headache at this time of the morning either. Although usually the headache had to be instigated by one of the Unspeakable interns, who still hadn't figured out how to keep their mouths shut about just about anything, and were always making problems with the other departments. 

Right on cue, a bang sounded down the hallway, followed by the straggled yelling of poor Mr. Wilson, and the frantic running of a pair of young shoes. 

"The next time you tell the Aurors about our Mortem case, I'm going to..." The voice faded off down into another corridor. 

Draco sighed, and his headache grew.

It was the sore throat that alerted Draco to the fact that something may not be quite right with himself.

It came around eleven, right along with the lunch post. 

"Malfoy?"

Draco twirled around in his chair. "Yes?"

"Mail for you."

"Thanks, Buchanan."

Draco took the envelope and slipped his thumb under the seal. He couldn't think who he'd be getting mail from that would send it through his work address. Nearly all of his correspondents simply sent messages through his personal owl. 

Draco unfolded the letter and skimmed over the contents. Another inquiry on the Mortem case. Draco tossed the letter onto his desk and rested his head back. The headache was becoming almost unbearable, and he didn't have the bandwidth to deal with another case breach. It was all the ridiculous interns, trying to brag about their workload, and it was screwing up the Unspeakables' investigation plans. Every time they got close to finding an information leak, another intern would spill the latest news of their _glamorous, top-secret job_. Draco had had quite enough of it. The case was already several months over schedule because of it. Several months wasted that Draco could have used in various other ways. New cases, Unspeakable recruitment, employee training, a week of vacation with Harry, appealing to Sullivan to get rid of the interns. The Unspeakables could get their own coffee, for heaven's sake (Draco had been making his own beverages for years for fear that one of the young interns would poison his cup on some diluted revenge path). 

And so, the itch in his throat first twinged.

Draco drank more tea first, then took a Calming Potion. He figured it might be from stress, so he took a walk around Muggle London before coming back to his desk. The itch grew to a scrape, then a grind, and then a blindingly painful grating that flayed Draco's throat every time he so much as swallowed or breathed. 

He went to Mungo’s. They said he had a cold, so he went back to work. 

He finished work, glared at the interns, and walked out of the Unspeakable offices. Took the elevator, nodded to Bailey, who was filling in as head of the DMLE while Robards was on leave, and left the Ministry. He apparated home, and then stood on the front step outside his and Harry's apartment, and tried to imagine how he would explain to Harry that he didn't feel like going out to the pub with Ronald tonight after all.

"That's okay."

"I'm so sorry. I know it's been weeks since you saw him, but I just really don't一"

"Draco." Harry set a hand over Draco's knee and smiled at him, his smile crooked and his eyes honey warmed. "It's alright, really. I'm not going to make you go if you're not feeling well."

Draco sighed and brushed a hand through his hair before settling it over Harry's hand. "Why don't you go? I'll stay home and rest, and you can go see Ronald."

Harry leaned further back into the couch and began to circle the tips of his fingers over the bunched seam of Draco's trousers at the joint of his knee. He looked at Draco, his gaze slow and careful. "I'm not going to leave you here. I'll just firecall Ron and reschedule. Then I can stay here and take care of you."

"Darling, I really don't want you to miss out一"

"Draco," Harry interrupted. He pressed his fingers down into Draco's kneecap. "I'll stay."

Harry made spaghetti, Draco's favorite, and wobbled both plates between his hands as he took them back to the couch, where Draco still lay. Draco would've gotten up and helped make the garlic bread, but he honestly hadn't had the energy to get off the couch, and Harry had insisted that they could live without garlic bread for one night. 

Harry set the plate down on Draco's lap and settled himself on top of Draco's feet. "Feeling alright?"

Draco tried to smile and nod. His headache and his throat were worse, but he didn't want to say. "Much better," he said. 

"Liar," said Harry, and Draco didn't disagree. 

"Call Ronald," Draco told Harry, reaching out to take his plate from his hands. "I'll wait."

Harry kissed the place Draco's thumb met his wrist before handing him his plate, nearly tipping over with the weight of pasta, and going to the next room to reschedule pub night with Ron. 

Draco sat, cradling his and Harry's plates of spaghetti in his hands, staring down at it blankly while the murmurs of Harry's voice rose in the other room, muffled by the crackling of the fireplace. Draco was thirsty. It was the stupid scratch in his throat, scraping up and down and up and down. He needed water. 

Draco set the plates on the coffee table, careful. His hands shook a little. He swung his legs over the side of the couch, stood, looked around the room, and promptly blacked out.

Harry heard the bang, cancelled the firecall, and ran to the living room. He found Draco, face down, sprawled, and covered in broken porcelain and spaghetti sauce. And so the call was interrupted, and the third part of Draco's impending illness was complete. 

Draco woke for a short time to find himself sitting upright in the bathtub, water clouded with tomato sauce around his thighs, and one Harry Potter sitting between his knees. Draco smirked, got light headed, and nearly passed out again. 

"Hey," Harry murmured. "Head down, between your knees."

Draco obeyed and his vision slowly cleared. He didn't dare lift his head again and risk another epic collapse. 

"You're lucky the plates didn't cut you," Harry said, scraping idly at a tomato stain in Draco's skin, reading Draco's mind. 

"I'm sorry," Draco muttered. "I got dehydrated. Or I have low iron, maybe."

"Or you're sick," Harry supplied. 

Draco shook his head. Wet hair, blonde, a little too long, stuck to his cheeks and his forearms where his head was resting. "No. I simply feel a little off. I'll be alright after a good night's sleep."

Harry had the kindness, or perhaps the common sense, not to argue with Draco on this. Draco dropped his head down on Harry's shoulder in thanks, and Harry ended up washing his hair, and his skin, and his face (with the fancy face wash, Draco demanded, not the bar soap for heaven's sake). He pulled him out of the bath by the armpits and wound him up in four separate freshly laundered towels. Draco smiled at him, gripped Harry's waist, dropped his forehead into the stretch and turn of Harry's neck, brushed his lips across his throat and whispered a dozen words of nothing to him. 

"Do you think," Harry said, after they were both dressed and tucked into bed, "that Robards will let me quit the Aurors?"

Draco turned to look at Harry across the half of a pillow in between them. "You never said you wanted to quit the Aurors."

"Well, I hate the paperwork something dreadful."

"Why, of course," Draco said, turning back to the ceiling. "I understand."

"Do you think he will?" Harry asked. 

"How can he not?" Draco said. He ran his fingers through the sheets, skimming through folds, edging around creases, until he found Harry's hand. "You're Harry Potter."

Draco fell asleep that night with his fingers gripped in between Harry's, and the night sparkling beyond their gray, empty ceiling. 

"Sweetheart."

The sheets rustled beside Draco, but he didn't roll over. It was hot, _so_ hot, but he didn't feel like rolling over or kicking the sheets off. 

"Sweetheart," Harry whispered again. 

A cool hand lifted up to brush along the line of Draco's shoulder in the dark. Draco shrugged it off and groaned into his pillow. "'M hot. Lemme alone," Draco muttered. 

The sheets lifted abruptly off Draco's torso. Draco didn't bother scrambling after them. It felt nice, the cool air swiping over his skin. He smiled into his pillow and burrowed further down into the mattress. 

"Draco," Harry said. Draco almost lifted his head at the twinge in Harry's voice, but it was so hard to do so because his neck really was too sore to make any movement. "Draco," Harry said again, blind panic clear in his voice. "You're hot. Really hot."

"Yes," Draco mumbled. "I'm very hot."

" _No._ " Harry's voice broke. A hand gripped onto Draco's shoulder and pulled hard, rolling him over onto his back. Draco peeked up at the crown of Harry's hair through the crusted slits of his eyelids, curls and tangles backlit by the dim yellow bathroom light. "You're burning up." There was a pause. "Oh god," Harry said. And then arms were sliding under Draco and struggling to lift him, and he was unsure of what exactly happened after that. 

"Draco, Draco, Draco." A breath. "Draco, Draco, Draco." A huff of air. 

Another voice. "Harry, he's going to be alright."

Harry's voice. "Right."

Draco struggled to peel his eyelids open. He wanted to see Harry. 

He couldn't get his eyes open. All he could see was the swarming darkness of the inside of his eyes and mind. He could hear though. That was something. 

The chant of Draco's name began again in Harry's voice. "Draco, Draco, Draco, Draco." A pause for air. "Draco, Draco."

Draco opened his mouth. His lips split a little and he flicked his tongue out to taste the blood. 

Harry's breath hitched audibly, suddenly close to Draco's face. "Draco? Darling? Can you hear me?"

He wanted to see Harry so badly. 

Draco tried to open his eyes again, and slowly, very slowly, with the uncomfortable sense of something peeling back reluctantly, his eyelids lifted, and Harry's general shape came into distorted focus. 

Harry smiled, his eyes glassy and ringed with red and heavy dark circles. There was a slight choking sound, and then Harry lurched forward on top of Draco. 

"Oh god," Harry said. "Thank god you're awake. Please never do that again."

"Do what?" Draco forced out. His voice emerged scratchy and harsh. 

"The blacking out thing. The not waking up for four days thing. You scared the shit out of me." Harry leaned away from him a bit to place his forehead up against Draco's. 

Draco stared at him, cross eyed. "Four days?"

"Yeah." Harry let out a sort of laugh. "We're in Mungo's, baby."

"Don't call me baby. You only call me baby when you have to go on long distance missions," Draco huffed. He folded his arms over his chest. "And I went to Mungo's before and they said I had a cold."

"I know, I know," Harry said, and pushed his face closer to Draco's so their noses squished together at the tips. "And I only call you baby when I'm scared, you git."

"Oh." Draco pulled back a little. Trying to look into Harry's face from less than a centimeter away was making him dizzy. "You're scared to go on missions?"

Harry rolled his eyes. "It has nothing to do with the missions."

Draco tilted his head. "Then why are you scared?"

Harry lifted a hand up to Draco's cheek and sighed. "I'm scared about you."

"Me?" Draco almost laughed, but his lungs hurt too much to get the sound out. "I'm not the one who leaves for month long missions. What do you have to be scared about me for?"

Harry looked down, at Draco's lap. Draco looked down too. There was nothing particularly interesting. Just the coarse gray threads of the standard issue Mungo's blanket, and Draco's hand, braceleted by a charmed ring that displayed Draco's vitals. 

Harry inhaled deeply and held it there for a long second. "I worry when we're not together." He looked up at Draco, and Draco followed him with his eyes. "I don't like being away from you. I get scared something will happen if I'm away for too long. Like I'll come back and there will have been some random attack. Or some Ministry employee will have harassed you straight out of your job. Or you'll get sick and I'll come back and it'll be too late, and I won't be there to say goodbye一"

"Harry," Draco interrupted. "None of those things will happen."

Harry stood abruptly. His cheeks went ruddy, then blotchy, and his eyes squinted up tightly in the way they always did when Harry was trying really hard not to cry in front of Draco. "You don't know that, Draco!" Harry exhaled harder and shoved his hands through his hair, turning half away from him. "It's happening right now! What if I had been gone on mission when you collapsed onto the coffee table? What if there hadn't been anyone there to take you to Mungo's when you were burning up in the middle of the night?" He dropped into the small folding chair in the corner, shoved in beside a collection of half dead flowers. "You could've died. You _would've_ died."

"What are you talking about?" Draco said. "I'm a little sick. I'm not dying."

Harry bolted to a standing position and threw his hands in the air. "Draco! You _are_ dying!"

Harry looked as if he regretted saying anything as soon as the words left his mouth. He clapped his hands over his mouth and whirled around so his shoulder blades glared at Draco. 

"Harry?" Draco said quietly. "What do you mean?"

Harry shook his head hard, still facing away. "Nothing. I didn't mean anything."

Draco paused. "I'd rather hear whatever it is from you than from one of the Healers, please."

The tension seeped out of the muscles in Harry's back. He knew how much Draco hated getting information later than everyone else. Harry turned back and slowly lowered himself on the edge of the bed. 

"The Healers say it's _tarda amissi_ ," Harry said. His eyes didn't meet Draco's. “Well, Hermione figured it out first, of course. But your assigned Healers confirmed it.”

"What does that mean?" Draco asked. He reached his hand out and Harry caught it between his. 

"Some curse." Harry dropped his chin back and stared up at the ceiling, his breath coming out too hard and fast. "Hermione said it means 'the loss is slow.'" Harry slowly lowered his gaze to look at Draco. "They were waiting for you to wake up to tell them if you got cursed in the past four months." Harry shook his head. "I told them you would've told me if something had happened to you, or if you'd gotten hit by an unknown curse, but they didn't believe me. I mean you would've told me, right?"

Draco stared at Harry hard. "Harry. We've been together for ten years. I've been in love with you for almost double that amount of time. There should be no doubt that I would've told you. Of course一of _course_ I would've told you."

Harry nodded and blinked furiously. "Right, of course. I know. I just一four months. How did we not realize something was going wrong inside of you for four months?"

"Harry," Draco said softly. "Stop doing that."

"Doing what?"

"Blaming yourself."

"I'm not一"

"Yes, you are. You're thinking, what if we had realized sooner? What did we miss? If we knew something was wrong earlier, then we could've stopped it."

Harry's silence was his response. 

"You haven't even told me what the curse is," Draco said. "What it does."

"Right." Harry looked up at Draco. "Um. Can I..."

"What is it?"

Harry swallowed. "I want to be close to you right now."

Draco smiled a little. "Darling, you don't have to ask for that." Draco carefully scooted himself to one side of the bed, ignoring the throbbing ache in his joints as he did so. 

Harry crawled up the bed and curled in next to Draco, his face pressing into the side of Draco's neck, one of his hands resting over Draco's stomach. Harry didn't waste any time. "The curse works itself slowly through your body, shutting down one function at a time until you're dead." Harry's hand tightened over the slight dips and curves of Draco's belly. 

Draco didn't feel anything wrong yet. Yes, his throat hurt, and his bones felt as if an erumpment had been sitting on them for several hours, and possibly his head was still pounding. But he didn't feel like he was dying. Draco wasn't ready to die. 

"And then what?" Draco asked. 

"What do you mean?" Harry bit at the soft skin under Draco's ear. "And then you're dead. Dead, dead, dead. I'll never see you again, or touch you again, or kiss you, or lick you, or一" Harry let out a strangled cough. "And it's been in your body for _four months_."

"Well," Draco said because he was not sure what else there was to be said. 

"Well," repeated Harry. 

So he was dying. 

Draco went home from Mungo's on a Tuesday. 

Harry went home with him, clutching his hand and stinking like he hadn't bathed for a week (he hadn't). 

Draco tried to put his robes on and go to work, but Harry held on to his arm and begged Draco to stay home until Draco finally relinquished and let Harry lay him down on the couch. 

"I'm not dead yet," Draco said. 

"Too soon," said Harry. 

"When can I start making death jokes then?"

Harry stopped, froze right in the middle of the living room. "Draco," his voice broke. "It's always going to be too soon."

Draco nodded and looked away.

They watched television. Harry kissed the back of Draco's neck. Draco stuck a hand down Harry's pants, and they made love on the couch. Harry cried, and Draco tried to pretend like there wasn't a bottomless empty pit expanding outwards into his entire existence. 

When they went to bed, Harry cried again, hugging Draco hard in the shower, as he got his pajamas on, under the sheets. Draco stared straight ahead and thought of what it would be like after he was dead, when Harry would be alone. They were only thirty-three. Harry would grieve, but then he'd get over Draco. He'd fall in love with someone else, get married to them, have kids with them. He would do those things with someone who was not Draco. Draco had always thought they'd get to those things eventually. The family car and the babies and the whole being parents thing. But now it would be with someone else. And Draco knew, that as sick as he felt about it now, that's what he would want for Harry. 

Draco squeezed his eyes shut tight and hugged Harry back harder than was strictly necessary. 

The next morning, Harry made Draco pancakes before work. They walked to the Ministry together even though Harry usually liked to use the Floo (because he was always running behind) and Draco usually walked to the phone booth entrance so he could stroll through Muggle London (because he was always too early). But they went together and held hands and did not speak about _tarda amissi_ , and it was nice. 

Draco thought then that he could accept death. 

He nodded to the woman behind the guest counter. Her hair looked nicer today. He kissed Harry on the cheek before they got off on their different floors on the elevator. 

"Mornin', Draco," said Wilson when Draco walked into the Unspeakable's department. 

"Good morning, Wilson." Draco smiled at him.

"Did you take a long weekend?" Wilson asked.

Draco smiled. "Sort of. Spent it at home."

"That's nice."

Draco hummed before saying, "How's your wife? Anna?"

Wilson smiled. "Very well, thank you. How's Harry?"

Draco patted Wilson's shoulder. "Perfectly Harry."

"Glad to hear it," Wilson said, and Draco turned to make his way to his desk. 

Everything stayed the same, at first.

But then the symptoms began to come on slowly, almost without notice. First it was the numbness in his toes that Harry couldn't rub away, and then his inability to feel hunger. Losing his ability to feel his eyelashes brushing across his cheek, and then the weird pinching in his rib cage that eventually faded away. 

Draco wouldn't have noticed it at all if it weren't for Harry. 

They tried to live their lives the way they had been doing for the past decade. Or at least, Draco tried. Harry seemed set on spending every second as if it was Draco's last. Draco wanted to tell him that he still had months and months before the symptoms were supposed to get bad, and almost half a year until he was really in danger of keeling over unexpectedly. But when Harry blinked at him too hard over coffee, when he folded the sheets over Draco's lap before bed, and when he started putting little handwritten notes with scribbled hearts in Draco's lunch... well, Draco didn't say anything. 

Harry noticed everything. If he brushed his fingers over Draco's arm to get his attention and Draco didn't notice right away, Harry would grab at his hand and hold on until Draco's fingers turned purple at the tips. If Draco touched a hot plate for a little too long, Harry would yank him away and take him away to bed to press his skin so hard onto Draco's that Draco would never be able to let it fade away. 

It was things like that, but it was also things like the Healer check ups he now had to go to. It was also the lying about where he was when he began to have to go to those Healer appointments during work hours. It was promising Harry that he wouldn't take any field missions. 

Not that it mattered. The Mortem case was still occupying the entire Unspeakable department with no new leads in weeks. Draco was about ready to punt someone's head off their shoulders about it. 

"Don't look so murderous."

"I am very, very murderous," Draco said, glaring down into his earl grey tea. "Very. Did I mention how murderous I am?"

Harry grinned at him and sat down at the kitchen stool next to him. "Well, who is it this morning? Wait, no. Let me guess. The Unspeakable interns."

Draco huffed out a breath. "They do everything wrong. Everything from putting too much cream in the coffee to telling the Aurors we're raiding the old Lestrange estate on Saturday."

"Draco," Harry said. He tapped his fingers over Draco's knuckles lightly. "You don't get coffee from the interns."

"Yeah, so?"

"So you have no idea if they put too much cream in the coffee." Harry smirked. 

Draco grunted. "I just know they do. They have to have it on their job application to get into the department. Must add excessive cream to every mug of coffee in sight."

Harry snorted and leaned over to peck Draco on the lips. "You make me laugh, darling."

Draco tilted his chin and flicked some of his hair behind his ear. "Glad you feel entitled to take advantage of my services."

"Pfft." Harry stood and dropped his mug in the sink. "You walking to the Ministry today?"

Draco shook his head. "No, I took the day off, actually. Just needed a little break."

"Oh." Harry moved away from when he'd been heading to the cloak rack. "That sounds nice. I wouldn't have woken you so early if I'd known."

"I know." Draco shrugged and smiled. He pushed himself up out of his chair and walked over to Harry, slinging his hands over his hips and pulling him in. "I wanted to get up with you."

"Hm," said Harry. "Do you need a day to yourself, or would you like some company today?"

"You know," said Draco, dragging Harry closer. "I think I would really appreciate some company."

"Have you told anyone?"

Draco looked up from his books, stuck his finger between the pages to mark his place, and then set it down on his lap. "Told anyone about what?"

Harry twisted around in the armchair to look at Draco. "Draco."

Draco sighed and tucked his feet in between the couch cushions. "Okay, no. I haven't told anyone."

"Not even your father?"

"Harry. Azkaban."

"Right. Blaise or Pansy?"

"Off getting rich in America and running the entire fashion industry, respectively."

"Draco," Harry said flatly. 

"What?" Draco dropped his book off the side of the couch. He'd find his place later. "I don't want to tell people, okay?" He dropped his eyes to his hands, resting in his lap, and waited for Harry's desperate attempts to convince Draco otherwise. They didn't come. 

The leather chair creaked a little as Harry stood, and his socked feet padded across the rug as he shuffled over to the couch. He sat down over Draco's feet tucked into the couch. Draco looked up at him. 

He wanted to absorb everything about Harry in these moments. In all moments, truthfully, but these ones especially. When Harry's hair stuck out in little tufts above his ears and the back of his neck, and his glasses sat on his nose slightly tipped to one side, one of his cheeks pink from laying on it. Draco wanted to be so close to Harry that there was no telling them apart, no pulling them away, no way to ever divide them. 

"I don't want to die," Draco whispered, not waiting for Harry to ask. "I want to pretend for as long as I can that I'm not dying. Pretending includes not telling anyone."

Harry blinked, his lashes tangling together. "But I know."

"Yes," Draco said. He wiggled his toes under Harry's bum. He couldn't feel the pressure of Harry's weight or the heat from his body. "But with you it's different. I've never had to pretend to be something different than what I am with you."

They didn't mention how ugly he'd been to Harry in school. How that had been part of Draco's truth too, before the very end of the war. They didn't mention the things Harry had done in return. They'd already talked about all of it, years before; it didn't need to be said. 

Harry blinked again, faster. "I一" He stopped and blinked again, little glass tears skittering down his face. "I just. Really don't want you to die." Harry tried to catch his breath. "I'm not ready yet."

Draco pulled his feet out from under him and turned himself around on the couch to face Harry. Draco wrapped his arms around Harry and held him tight, hooking his chin over his shoulder, and pulling him close enough to feel the jut of his collarbones against his own. They fell back on the couch, twined together, and lay there, hugging, until the sky went dark and Harry dozed off. 

Draco murmured into the air, "I'm not ready, either."

Draco opened the door to his office one morning to find Tom Bailey, Robards’ stand in, peering over his desk. 

“Good morning,” said Draco. 

Bailey whirled around. “Ah, Malfoy. I was looking for you.”

Draco shut the door behind carefully and hung his bag on the hook nailed in to the wall. “Here I am.”

Bailey nodded, and his features spread in a wide smile. “Yes, here you are.”

Draco walked slowly around his desk and pulled his chair out. All his files were still stacked neatly where he’d left them the day before, his mug set out with dregs of earl grey tea. Nothing seemed out of place. 

“We do have a secretary,” Draco said pointedly as he sat down. His knees ached today. 

Bailey kept grinning. “Yes, she told me to come in and wait for you.”

“Hm,” said Draco. “So what did you need?”

“Ah, yes,” Bailey said jovially, tucking his thumbs into his pockets. Draco wrinkled his nose at the sight. “Well, I heard that you were working on the Mortem case.”

Draco nodded in affirmation. “Yes.”

“You’ve got a bit of a problem with the interns down here,” Bailey said. “They run around with all kinds of information from the Department of Mysteries.”

“I am _quite_ aware,” said Draco. He refrained from rolling his eyes. “It is a constant bother. Nevertheless, if you are concerned about the interns, I would advise you to speak with Sullivan, our department head, rather than me.”

Bailey waved his hands and strolled across Draco’s office before settling into the chair across from his desk. “No, no. That’s not why I’m here. I’ll leave that for Robards once he gets back from his leave.” Bailey folded his hands together and set them on his lap. “I wanted to ask if you needed any assistance on the Mortem case. I saw in our records that you’ve been working on it for seven months now, and I have plenty of Aurors to offer if you need extra hands.”

Draco stared. “Why, no. The Unspeakables do not require any additional assistance. Thank you for the offer.”

Draco, abstractly, longed for the time when he was a boy, when the Unspeakables were known for their anonymity, rather than their inter-Ministry cooperation. 

A month later, Draco lost his sense of taste. 

He didn't realize at first. He figured it was the anxiety over work that made his lunch so bland, the stress from knowing he was dying that dulled his morning coffee. 

It wasn't until Harry and him were lying in their bed, tangled over and in between the sheets, that Draco finally understood. 

He was kissing Harry, and thinking about how he smelled of fresh laundry and bergamot, when he leaned down to bite under Harry's jaw. It wasn't the snip of teeth that warned him, but the lick that came after. Nothing. 

Draco pulled back and rubbed his fingers over Harry's neck. Harry turned his head to the side and smiled lazily up at Draco. 

"What is it?" he murmured, relaxed and dazed.

Draco bent down and licked Harry's skin, one long stripe from collarbone to throat to chin. There was nothing. Not even the taste of his own saliva. Harry shivered.

"What is it?" Harry asked again. 

Draco sat back on his heels and pressed his palms into his eyes. "Oh Merlin," he said. 

What else was there to say? It was one thing to know that you were dying, to know that you would lose all autonomy and sense in a matter of months. It was quite another thing to lean down to a body you knew better than your own, press your mouth to it, expecting the same taste that had always existed there. The drip of salt and sugar, the bitter tang of flesh, sweet in the aftertaste, the familiar give of muscle under teeth. And instead, taste only the absence. 

"Draco?" Harry began to sit up, but Draco set a hand over his chest and gently pushed him back down. 

He dropped his weight back down Harry, his knees on either side of Harry's hips, and pressed his nose into the side of Harry's face where his hair swarmed over his ear. 

"It's going."

"What?" Harry asked. A hand came up to hold onto the back of Draco's hair. "What is it? Did I do something wrong? You don't want to right now? Are you okay?" Harry inhaled sharply. "Draco, say something."

"Darling," Draco whispered into his skin. "My senses. They're going."

Harry's grip in his hair tightened. "How do you know?"

"I can't taste you anymore."

Harry stiffened, held onto Draco, and that was that. 

It was around this time that Draco recalled a moment from quite a few months back, when Bailey had first taken over for Robards. Bailey had brought Draco coffee. Draco thought about the bitter bite of coffee, and was sad because he’d never taste it again.

Draco had been sitting in the breakroom with the _Daily Prophet_ spread out in front of him on a table, minding his own business, when the door banged open to reveal the portly figure of Tom Bailey. Draco hardly looked up until a mug was set down in front of him, a little too hard to be considered friendly. 

Draco looked between the mug and Bailey. “Good day, Bailey.”

“Morning, Malfoy,” Bailey said, and sat down beside Draco. Draco shifted uncomfortably, but didn’t move away. “Got you a coffee.”

“Why?” Draco asked, trying in vain to keep his voice polite instead of suspicious.

Bailey pushed the mug closer to Draco. “I overheard the interns complaining about how you never take the coffee they make.”

Draco narrowed his eyes. “Habit of war.”

Bailey had continued on as if he hadn’t heard. “So I thought I’d make you a cup. As a show of interdepartmental cooperation. And you don't have to worry about poisoning,” Bailey said with a wink, “Because I made it.”

“You made it.”

“Quite,” Bailey said. He stood and patted the table. “I was an Auror for sixty-three years. You can trust me.”

Draco had not, at the time, intended to drink the coffee. Draco did not, actually, like coffee. Draco drank earl grey tea exclusively, nearly always made by Harry. On the rare occasion that Harry didn’t make the tea, then Draco made it himself. No one else. 

But Bailey had stood there, waiting and watching, until Draco pulled the mug forward and took a small sip. 

Draco grimaced, and Bailey clapped Draco’s shoulder and left. 

On second thought, Draco didn’t miss the taste of coffee. It was disgusting.

It wasn't long after the taste incident that Harry started taking Draco's work home with him for Draco to complete in the comfort of their apartment. 

"I don't need you to do that, darling," Draco said when Harry first came home with a briefcase full of Draco's paperwork. "I can go into the Ministry just fine."

Harry stared down at his feet and held out the briefcase. "I know. I just thought..."

And then Draco remembered that he couldn't feel anything below the middle of his shins or the tips of his fingers, and so he agreed. Harry said he would help transcribe his work in the evenings while Draco did all the thinking, and that was even better. 

It came as no surprise when Harry came home on a different evening, a week later, and said, "I'm taking a break from the Aurors."

Draco smiled and kissed Harry's cheek. "How come?"

Harry shrugged and threw his cloak over the back of the couch. "It doesn't make me happy."

Draco grinned and followed Harry into the kitchen. "What does?"

"You," Harry said. 

Draco stopped smiling, and they made the pasta together in silence. 

Smell disappeared slowly. One day Draco could vividly experience the crooks and crannies of London at lunch hour, and the next day the burnt coffee on the counter wasn't quite as strong, and then the next the morning paper didn't give off quite the same aroma. Again, Draco only truly realized when he was with Harry. 

When Harry asked him to smell his new cologne, and Draco could barely make out his own. Or when Harry offered up a chocolate muffin he'd brought back from the Weasleys, and there was nothing about it that he could enjoy. Harry's favorite curry, the smell of the shampoo he'd been using since he was thirteen. All faint, all slipping away. 

And then, without quite noticing when exactly it had happened, it was gone. 

"Mornin' Draco."

Draco looked up from his desk to see Wilson standing in the doorway of his office with his arms folded over his chest and his eyebrows drawn up in the middle. 

Draco closed the file he'd been working on, and smiled. "Hello, Wilson. How are you doing this afternoon?"

"Just fine, thanks." Wilson hesitated, shifting his weight. 

"Something wrong?" Draco asked. 

Wilson shrugged and waved his hand. "Oh, no. Just wanted to say hello. How are you doing?"

Draco ran his hands carefully over the file for something to do. "I'm doing well, thank you."

"And Harry?"

Draco grinned. "Perfectly Harry."

Wilson nodded and moved his weight to lean on the other side of the door frame. 

"Do you need anything?" Draco said, unsure. "I finished the latest report on the Mortem case. It looks like we'll be closing up on it soon if the interns can keep their large mouths shut, but一"

"Yes, quite," Wilson said. He paused for a moment and Draco waited. "Are you sure you're doing alright?"

Draco leaned back in his chair. 

"You haven't been in to work for almost two months now," Wilson said, avoiding Draco's eyes by looking around at the walls, the floor, the bookcase. "Harry keeps coming in to get your work. Nice bloke, 'course. But I wanted to make sure everything was okay with you."

"Oh," Draco said. Draco considered lying to Wilson, telling him he was fine, that everything was okay. But then, Draco would be on his way to dead in four months. There didn't seem to be much point in lying to his closest colleague. "Actually," Draco said. "I've been ill."

Wilson straightened. "Oh my. Are you doing better?"

Draco shook his head. "It's terminal."

Wilson's hand flew to his chest. "Merlin, Draco. Why didn't you say anything?"

Draco shrugged and scuffed his feet on the floor. "Quite difficult to talk about, honestly."

"Right, of course," Wilson said. He rubbed a hand over his robes. "Is it overstepping to ask what it is?"

"No, not at all," Draco said. " _Tarda amissi._ "

Wilson stared for a moment before he gasped, both his hands coming up to grip his hair. " _Tarda amissi!_ " Wilson looked wildly around the room, and then promptly ran out.

"Well," said Draco.

Draco sat in the silence of his office for a minute before standing and pulling out his wand. He didn't think he'd be returning to this office any time soon. He'd only come in the first place to pick up a file Harry'd forgotten to take home with him last week. Draco waved his wand and orchestrated the packing of his things into conjured boxes. With one last flick of his wand, a stripe of tape sealed the last box. Draco levitated the boxes and walked out of the Unspeakable Department with them trailing behind him. Wilson was no where to be seen. 

Draco left the Ministry with his wand held high, the boxes trailing behind him, and the increasing sense that an end was fast approaching. 

"Ron wants to meet up soon."

Draco nodded and dipped his quill into a bottle of ink before leaning closer over a stack of parchment on the Mortem smuggling rings leading into Brooklyn, New York. "Okay. I don't mind hanging out by myself for the evening. I've got plenty to catch up on before Monday." Draco half turned to look at Harry. "Let him know you can go."

Harry shook his head from the couch before standing and coming over to stand behind Draco at his desk. "He wants to see you, too."

Draco sighed. "He always says that, but he really just wants to see you."

Harry brushed a hand over the top of Draco's head. "Darling, I really think he'd like to see us both this week."

Draco glanced up at Harry with squinted eyes. "Did you tell him?"

Harry carefully wrapped his arms around Draco's shoulders. "No."

"But you think I should." It wasn't a question. 

"Yes," Harry said. Before Draco could protest, Harry said, "I know you don't want to involve anyone else in this. But I think, at this point, you can't deny that Ron and Hermione care about you at least a little bit."

Draco shrugged and picked his quill back up. "Hermione already knows," he said after a long moment.

"Yes," Harry said. "And she, as a Healer, is under a patient non-disclosure agreement."

Draco nodded and stared down blankly at the parchment in front of him.

"And also," Harry said, his voice quieter. "I would like to tell Ron. I will completely understand if you refuse, but I need someone to talk to about this."

Draco froze and slowly set the quill down again. He turned around to face Harry, but stayed in his seat. "How long have you been feeling this way?"

Harry wouldn't look at him. "A couple weeks," he said. "I know this isn't my thing. You're the one who's sick, and I have no reason to complain or pretend I'm suffering just as much as you are一"

Draco reached up and brushed the tips of his fingers over Harry's mouth. "No. I'm sorry." He carefully stood and pushed Harry gently back to sit on the couch. Draco settled in beside him and took his hands. "I'm sorry. I've put this all on you. All the stress, and fear, and pressure of a secret. I shouldn't have let the burden rest all on you without letting you talk to anyone about it."

Harry shook his head. His cheeks were ruddy and his eyes squinted tight. "No, it's not your fault at all. You're the one who's sick, and it's your decision. It's no burden to me at all."

"It is a burden," Draco said firmly. "I took care of my mother before she died, after the war. I _know_ that it's a burden to love and care for someone who is sick. It was a burden I wanted to carry, but it didn't make it any less difficult to watch her die and know I could only do so much."

Harry swallowed hard. A tear slipped out under his eyelashes, slow and catching. 

"I'm sorry," Draco whispered. "Of course we'll tell Ron."

"Thank you," said Harry. He didn't open his eyes or cry anymore. He simply lied down, his head in Draco's lap, and wrapped his arms tight around Draco's legs. 

Draco threaded his fingers through Harry's hair and let them sit in the quiet. If he'd leaned forward a little more, if he'd listened a little harder, he would've heard Harry murmuring wetly into the fabric of his trousers, "Live, please. Please, please. Please." Over and over and over, with his mouth open and his eyes shut tight. 

The Healer's office was bright, and blue, and cheerful. 

Draco stared at the wall as Harry sobbed beside him, his ribs expanding desperately against Draco's side. 

"It won't be much longer now," the Healer said. He looked uncomfortable, and kept glancing over at Harry as if he would go purple and pass out at any moment. "Your hearing will go next. After that is when the internal organs start shutting down beyond the sensory information that you've been able to easily identify the absence of up until now." He paused as Harry let out another gut wrenching gasp of air. Draco set his hand on Harry's back. He wasn't sure what else to do. "What kind of pain have you been experiencing so far?" the Healer asked. 

"Headaches, sore throat, aching joints, some numbness," Draco said. Harry dropped his head into his hands. 

The Healer nodded. "Yes, that's all quite expected. Once your hearing starts to disappear, it will likely begin to be more uncomfortable. The pain will become more noticeable."

"Okay," said Draco.

Harry cried harder. 

Harry put a formal permanent resignation into the Aurors a week later. 

"I've finally done it," he said when he came through the front door, a grim set to his mouth. 

Draco smiled up at him from where he was curled up in the armchair by the fire. He did not mention to Harry that he could no longer bend his knees further than a 45 degree angle, or that the fire looked more gray than orange. "That's wonderful, Harry. Are you happy?"

Harry kicked off his boots and sat down in front of the armchair. He leaned his head against Draco's calf. "Yes, I'm glad I did it."

"Good."

"Your coworker came up to me today," Harry said. 

"Who?"

"Archie Wilson?"

"Oh, yes," said Draco. 

"He asked about you."

"I told him about the _tarda amissi_." Draco set the book he'd been reading down and reached forward to run his hands through Harry's hair. He could hardly feel the texture of the strands anymore, but he could still feel the tension easing out of Harry's neck through the stroke of his palm, and that was enough. 

"Really?" Harry said, looking up. Draco nodded. "I'm proud of you."

"For finally acknowledging my death?"

Harry's face went white, and he said nothing more. 

Later, when they were sat on opposite ends of the bath with their legs twined together and a mountains of bubbles between them, Draco apologized. 

"I shouldn't have said that earlier," he said, nudging Harry's leg under the water with his toes. 

"It's okay," Harry said, looking at Draco with wide eyes, disarming and undiluted without his glasses. 

Draco pulled Harry's leg closer to him, and let the subject drop. He didn't want to talk about it anymore. 

They sat in the bath together. Draco thought about having sex with Harry, but didn't move closer to him. He saw Harry staring at his collarbone, and knew that Harry wouldn't move closer to him either. Not now, at least. 

Draco ran his hands through the water and watched the ripples from his movement eat up the bubbles. They sat and Harry watched him until all the bubbles were nearly gone and the bathwater was lukewarm. 

"Will you marry me?" Harry asked. 

Draco stopped swirling his arms through the remaining bubbles. "What?"

Harry scooted closer in the bath and set his hands on Draco's knees. "Will you marry me?"

Draco couldn't respond for a long time. There was so many things he wanted to say. 

The first thing he wanted to say was _yes_. Of course he wanted to marry Harry. There was nothing more that he wanted than to marry Harry, and it seemed a joy to Draco to be able to die knowing that he'd had someone一had _Harry_ 一who wanted to be with him until the end of his life. 

But now was the end of his life. Four months were the end of his life. 

It didn't seem fair. 

"No," said Draco. 

Harry jerked back. "No?"

"I'm not going to marry you right before I die," Draco said. He tried to pull his legs in closer to himself, as some sort of shield between him and the irresistible force of Harry Potter, but his legs wouldn't move. "It's not fair to you."

Harry spluttered. "Not fair to _me_? What does that even mean?"

Draco looked away from Harry's red face, the part of his lips, the wide green of his eyes. "It means that I don't want to shackle you down to me four months before I die. Then, when I do die, you not only have to grieve for a partner, but a husband too. Then you'll be a widower, and you'll be a widower for your entire life. And when you eventually go off to marry someone else, it will be your second marriage." Draco took a deep breath. Harry's hands dropped off his knees. "I don't want to be your _first_ husband. I don't want you to have to enter the world as an _ex-_ husband. You should have the opportunity, after I'm gone, to enter the world as just Harry."

"Draco一"

"Wait." Draco held up a hand. "I'm not done." Draco let his hand fall back into the water, and it splashed dissipated soap up into Harry's face. "I apologize. I am, unfortunately, too selfish to let you go now." He looked at Harry, who was staring at him with red eyes and his mouth fallen open. "I want you to be with me when I go. I love you so much, and一Well. I want someone to hold my hand when it ends. I'm sorry."

"Sorry?" Harry choked out. 

"But," Draco said, "I cannot in good conscience marry you, even though it's what I want most in the world, knowing that I'll be leaving you behind before we've even had enough time to plan a wedding."

"Good conscience," Harry said faintly. 

"Yes," said Draco, and continued. "It is important to me that, after all this, you move on. Spend time with your friends, find another job, date some new people. I want you to get married, and have kids, and grow old with someone."

"You dolt," Harry said, still looking shocked and afraid. "I don't want to do that with anyone else. I want to do it with you."

"Well, you can't," Draco said. "I'll be dead."

Harry stood abruptly, so fast he almost slipped and fell head first out of the tub. Draco grabbed onto his hips to steady him. "That's not fair," Harry said loudly. He was buck naked. "I want to marry you. I'm asking you. If that's what you want, and it's what I want, then we should get married."

"No, we shouldn't."

"Yes! We should!" Harry shouted. Draco sat in the tub and stared up at him. "I am desperately in love with you, and I've wanted to marry you for _years_. Years! Merlin knows why I didn't ask ten years ago when I should have! But一" Harry's lip trembled. Draco did not point out that they were only just getting together ten years ago. "I've lost a decade that I could've been married to you, and I do not want一in six months一to look back and regret that I never took the chance. That I never just asked you. That I was never married to you. I won't be able to stand it."

"I can't marry you," Draco said. "I can't."

"You can!"

"My answer is no."

Harry stepped out of the tub and stormed out of the bathroom, leaving a sopping trail of dripped water behind him. 

Draco sat and stared at the water, still shaking and rippling where Harry had left it. 

It was the first fight they'd had since they were twenty-two.

Sound did not give Draco the grace of a slow departure.

One moment he was standing in the kitchen, listening to the pour of tea into his favorite mug, basking in the quiet sounds of the kitchen clinking around him, and the next, everything went mute in one, silent, terrifying, fell swoop.

Draco’s hands went slack. The mug and tea kettle dropped from his hands, almost as if in slow motion. Draco watched, apart, silent, as they fell and fell and clattered to the ground.

The kettle bounced off the ground and rose to bang into Draco's shins, spilling boiling water on the way. Draco didn't flinch; he couldn't feel it. The mug wasn't far behind it, shattering across the hardwoods and spilling half done tea all over Draco's bare feet. 

Draco stared down at the mess he'd made, and waited for something else to crash down over his head. 

A movement out of the corner of his eye brought his face up, and Draco saw Harry skid into the doorway of the kitchen, his eyes wide and panicked. Harry glanced down at the shattered porcelain, than at the puddled tea, and back up to Draco. 

Harry's mouth opened and closed, but Draco couldn't hear any of it. He took a breath in, took a breath out. He couldn't hear his own exhale. 

Draco swallowed down air and stared at Harry, the frantic jerks of his movement, the skittering pattern of his mouth. He tried not to cry, tried to keep his breathing even. He had no idea what sounds he was making, if any. All he knew was that he was standing in his kitchen with burning liquid dripping down his legs and Harry talking at him, and he couldn't feel anything. 

Harry began to move towards him, and Draco backed up desperately. Harry didn't stop, just kept coming forward until he was crowding Draco up against the fridge. He placed his hands on Draco's face, cradling his cheeks and leaning his face in close. Draco thought he must be shouting. 

Draco shook his head wildly between Harry's palms. _I can't hear,_ he mouthed. He thought he might be speaking aloud, but he wasn't sure. Harry's mouth was still moving, so Draco tried again. _I can't hear_.

Harry stopped suddenly, and took a step back from Draco. His mouth opened again, but he quickly shut it. Harry's eyes flicked from Draco, to the broken mug, the walls around them, up at the ceiling, and back down to Draco. 

The next words Harry's lips formed were perfectly clear to read. _Oh god._

Draco nodded. _Yes, oh god,_ he wanted to say. 

_Oh god_ , Harry said again. Draco nodded and nodded, and kept nodding when Harry fell against him and sobbed, inaudibly, into Draco's cheek. 

Their fight from the bathtub was forgotten. All the same, Draco could not forget that the last words he'd heard from Harry had been ones of lost disappointment. 

Harry took him to dinner, a nice dinner, with Ron and Hermione. 

The three of them talked, and occasionally looked to Draco as if expecting him to make some comment or jibe, and then quickly looked away again when they realized he had no idea what they were talking about. 

Harry left his hand on Draco's thigh the whole night. He looked at Draco the most, always with a broad smile on his face that snagged and caught when Draco shook his head mutely. 

The food was nice, Draco supposed. It tasted faintly of salt, and nothing else. Harry pointed a wine out to him on the menu, and Draco smiled and agreed because it was, indeed, a nice wine, and it was, indeed, very nice that Harry knew which wine to pick out for Draco. But when the wine came out, Draco took a sip, felt blank liquid on his tongue, and nearly threw it all back up. 

Harry noticed when Draco choked on it, and looked at him questioningly. Draco shook his head and smiled. Coughed a little, and tried to indicate that it had gone down the wrong tube. Harry kept staring at him with concern etched into lines by his mouth that Draco hadn't ever noticed before. Draco took a large gulp of the wine and swallowed it smoothly to ease the expression on Harry's face. Finally, Harry looked away. Draco didn't see his mouth move much for the rest of the dinner. 

When they left, both Hermione and Ronald hugged Draco close, which Draco found as odd. 

Draco looked at Harry over Hermione's bushy hair, and raised his eyebrows. 

Harry shook his head and dropped his head to stare at his feet. 

Draco didn't know what to do after that, so he hugged Hermione and Ronald back, and took Harry's hand to apparate them home. 

Wilson sent Draco a cryptic letter that wrote, 

_Dear Draco,_

_Come in to office. Mortem and T.A. linked!!_

_Archie_

However, Draco had stopped working on the case files Harry brought home, and he had no idea who T.A. was, so he ignored it in favor of spending his hours alternating between reading Muggle true crime novels and napping. 

Sometime around the arrival of Wilson’s letter, Draco’s throat started burning. Not the general coarse scratching of a sore throat, but a true, infernal fire working its way up Draco’s throat. 

At first, Draco ignored it. He spoke to Harry constantly without being able to hear his own words, unsure of his volume, tone, or sounds. But he spoke, and Harry traced words into his skin for him to interpret, and the burning grew worse and worse.

Until, one day, the burning grew to be so painful that Draco simply stopped talking altogether.

Harry slid a piece of parchment over to Draco across the table, a ballpoint pen gripped tightly between his fingers. Draco picked it up and read it. 

_I got a new job_ , it read. _Assistant professor at Hogwarts._

Draco smiled and looked up at Harry. Draco gently took the pen from Harry's hand and scribbled down, _that's great._

Harry nodded and hesitated before taking the parchment back from Draco and writing something else down. Draco pulled it towards him. 

_There's a sign language class at the Ministry on Tuesdays._

Draco's head snapped up to see Harry already looking at him. Draco didn't particularly want to learn sign language. Based on the time the Healer had given to him the last time they were there, Draco only had about two months left. It seemed a little pointless to waste his and Harry's time on something that would only be needed for another month一until his eyes gave out. But then, Harry was staring at him, his fingers twitching helplessly against the table, and his lips pursed tightly. Draco thought that it might be nice to be able to communicate with Harry in some way before all means of conveyance were stolen from him. 

_Okay_ , Draco mouthed, and smiled. 

So they went. 

The classes were boring at best, dreadful at mild, and death-inspiring at best. Draco almost wrote that one down for Harry to make him laugh, but he didn't think Harry would like it very much, all things considered, so he kept it to himself. Despite the boredom of the sign language classes, Draco couldn't deny that it was incredibly helpful to have a very small way to say _hello_ and _I love you_ to Harry, which was all he felt like he really needed to say anyways. The rest was something Draco payed attention to because it made Harry's eyes bright when Draco would sign something to him, and Harry would be able to respond, and they could feel like they were close. 

When Draco signed for water before bed, Harry grinned blindingly and tackled him into the sheets. Draco couldn't hear, or taste, or smell Harry, but he could see his smile, brilliant and wide under him for hours after. 

When Harry tapped his shoulder, hard so Draco could feel it, and signed to him that he was going out, Draco would reach out to hold his hand and squeeze tightly to say, _thank you. Thank you for telling me. Thank you for giving me a way to hear it._ Harry squeezed back and understood. 

No one else knew sign language, or bothered to learn it. But, frankly, Draco didn't care much to communicate with anyone else. Harry was enough. 

With a month and a half left to go, the Healers put him in a wheelchair. Draco tried to protest, raising his voice without knowing and flapping his arms wildly, but then he fell off the examination table, and the Healers got their way. 

Harry pushed him around in it everywhere, swatting Draco's hands away when he tried to push himself. _Me,_ he signed over and over. _Me, me._

Harry sent a letter to McGonagall, telling her that he needed a leave for the next two months. Perhaps McGonagall already knew about Draco because she didn't ask, simply granted Harry's request and wished him well until his return. 

With both of them out of work, they spent a large amount of time outside the apartment. They walked around museums and public parks, went to fancy restaurants and theatre shows with sign language interpreters that Draco couldn't keep up with. They had dinners with all of their friends, mostly Harry's because Draco's were out of the country. He finally sent letters to Pansy and Blaise about his condition, and although they both Flooed him to give their condolences and check in with him, neither of them bothered to come back to England. Draco didn't mind. If the positions were flipped, he likely would have done the same. What was there to do in a month that you hadn't already done in the lifetime you'd had together? With Pansy and Blaise, there was nothing left to say. With Harry, there was everything. 

They spent every minute together. Cavorting all over London, making and eating dinner, having sex, buying odd trinkets from second hand stores, taking baths, spinning around the living room with Harry holding up Draco's weight. Everything they could think of, and everything they couldn't. 

Often times, a deep pit would twist in Draco's stomach, and he would have to step away from Harry for a moment. As much as he loved these moments, uninterrupted stretches of time with Harry, the guilt was unavoidable. Harry was supposed to be happy, in his prime, preparing to be a professor at Hogwarts, and instead he was dragging Draco around in a wheelchair to entertain him until his death. Draco couldn't help but feel as if he was holding Harry back from his life. 

But he never said anything, and Harry never seemed to see down to that pit in his stomach. Or, if he did, he didn't have a way to ask Draco about it that wouldn't end in frustrated tears and ripped up parchment paper. So they didn't talk about it. 

With three weeks to go before Draco's expected departure, he began to wish he'd accepted Harry's proposal. Draco, of course, stood by what he'd said. And yet, he wished for a ring on his finger, and to fall asleep next to his husband. 

Harry ran a slow finger down Draco's spine. Draco lay absolutely still in order to focus all of his attention on the feeling of it. It would be completely gone soon. Right along with一

One of Harry's hands crept around Draco's waist. 

A warm mouth pressed in at the back of Draco's neck. Breath fluttered over the hair at the nape of Draco's neck, but he didn't hear the words that came along with it. 

He rolled to face Harry and leaned into him without pause. This part was easy, had always been easy. The slip and glide of their mouths, the roll of their limbs, the tumbling into each other. 

Draco shifted to lie on top of Harry and let his weight drop into him, as far and as long as it would go. Draco wished that he could peel back Harry's skin and be absorbed into his muscles, tendons, cells, and flesh. Become one instead of two. 

He did the next best thing. 

Harry came home one day with a mug of earl grey tea and a shopping bag. 

Draco looked up from the couch, buried under sheets they'd pulled off their bed. _What?_ he signed. He meant to say _what is it_ , but his sign language hadn't had time to get beyond the rudimentary basics, and _what_ was the best he could do. 

Harry held the bag up and set it down on Draco's lap. Draco could not sit up on his own, so he let Harry carefully lift him and prop him against the back of the couch. Harry took the item out of the bag and held it up for Draco to see. 

It was a sweater. A navy blue cashmere sweater. Draco smiled. A muscle somewhere close to his temple twitched uncomfortable. Draco held the smile. 

_Me?_

Harry nodded. _For you_ , he said. 

Harry helped him pull the sweater over his head and guide his arms through the sleeves. Draco looked down at himself, still half buried in the couch, and ran his hands down his front. 

_So nice_ , he said, with his mouth. Draco had no idea if there was any sound coming out of him at all, but if there was even a chance that Harry could hear his voice, then Draco would take it. _Thank you so much._

Harry took a sip from the mug of tea and then held it up to Draco's mouth to taste. Draco did not taste, but he drank. 

The lines around Harry's face had spread from the corners of his mouth to his eyes, in between his eyebrows, his forehead. Draco wanted to press his fingers into all their creases and smooth them away. Instead, he let Harry tug him close, push down the collar of his sweater with his chin, and bite teeth and mouth into Draco's flesh. 

And when Harry said, his mouth in mumbling conjunction with Draco's neck, _I love you_ , Draco tried to speak it back. 

_D...A...R...L...I...N...G...._

Draco lifted his hand back to the top of Harry's spine and swirled his finger between his shoulder blades again. _D...A...R...L...I...N...G...._

Harry's back rose heavily with his breath, and Draco paused, his hand hovering over Harry's skin. When Harry's breath settled back in again, Draco continued lettering words into Harry's skin. Just one word. 

_D...A...R...L...I...N...G...._

Draco murmured it, moved his lips to it. 

Harry shifted again and his hair rubbed static into the pillow his head lay on. Draco pushed himself closer, set his head down on Harry's pillow, so close to the back of his head that he could almost imagine the sweet heady scent of Harry's hair. Draco set his hand, palm flat, on the center of Harry's back, and tried to feel Harry's breath and the murmurs of sleep through his hand.

Harry took one long breath, and then the muscles in his back tensed. Draco set his forehead down between Harry's shoulder blades and felt Harry's back twist and tighten as he stretched before relaxing again. 

Draco kissed his back, and Harry rolled over.

When he had come to rest facing Draco, Harry leaned his face close into Draco's on the one pillow. He was so close that Draco could hardly make out the features of his eyelashes, the straight of his nose, full lips. The only thing filling Draco's vision was vivid, golden, brilliant green. 

Harry's lips moved, half against Draco's, and Draco tilted his head back to see them. He was mouthing one thing over and over again. 

_Darling._

_It's almost time,_ the Healer wrote in the air with his wand. His mouth was moving, so Draco assumed he was speaking aloud to Harry. 

Harry was silent beside Draco, standing slightly behind him and holding onto his elbow.

Draco nodded and wrote back, _when?_

The Healer twirled his wand between his fingers nervously. _A week_.

Harry stiffened beside him, but Draco didn't even flinch. He'd been expecting this, counting down the weeks and days until this moment. He knew Harry'd been counting too, but it was different now. Now that it was imminent and real. 

_It's around this time that we'd usually request patients to take up residence in Mungo's until their passing on_.

Harry's grip on Draco's elbow tightened hard. It might've hurt under different circumstances, but Draco hardly noticed now. 

The Healer held a sympathetic hand out for Draco to take, but neither Harry nor Draco moved toward it. The Healer dropped it, and began to write in the air again. _Of course, given your situation, we would understand if you preferred to spend the rest of your time in your own residence._

Draco looked to Harry, who was staring straight ahead and now holding onto Draco with both of his hands. Harry's face was thin and wan, and his eyes glassed over. 

_What do you_ _think?_ Draco signed to Harry. 

Harry shook his head and jabbed Draco in the shoulder with his finger. _Your decision._

 _Home_. 

Draco watched Harry's mouth as he turned to the Healer and spoke. He couldn't do more than guess at the words, but he could almost hear Harry's voice, cracking and sore.

Wilson sent another letter to Draco. Well, he sent it to Harry, but Harry held it in front of Draco's face for him to read. 

_Dear Draco,_

_Did you make the link? Will fix you._

_Archie Wilson_

Draco had no fucking clue what Wilson was talking about.

He took the paper from Harry, crumpled it up, and threw it across the room. It landed less than two feet away from where they were sitting together on the couch. Harry, in good spirit, levitated the letter into the fire. 

With five days left, Harry lifted Draco out of the wheelchair and crowded him onto their bed. Draco couldn't move many of his limbs without help beyond the turning of his head and general lifting of his shoulders, so he lay on the bed, and let Harry move him how he wished. 

It felt nice. The weight of Harry's body over his, moving around him and lifting Draco's legs, then bending his knees, rubbing his hands down his arms, all with gentle, watchful care. Draco smiled, dizzy and saccharine. Smiled, and smiled, and smiled. When Harry nudged his thighs further apart and pressed inside, Draco's mouth fell open in a small noiseless gasp, and Harry nestled his head into the bend of Draco's shoulder. 

Draco's fingers twitched vaguely, desperate to touch and pull closer. 

He knew, without knowing how he knew, that this was the last time they would do this. That it needed to count. 

_Well,_ Draco thought. _Well._

Four days left. 

On the third to last, Draco's sight went. 

There was no fuss or panic. He'd been waiting for it, and was almost relieved when everything went dark. His intestines and joints were hurting, aching, limp, and it hurt. The whole experience was rather painful. Draco was glad the end was so near. 

He didn't know what Harry thought. 

Harry hugged Draco, too tight to breathe. Carried him around the house so Draco didn't have to sit rigidly in the wheelchair. Tried to feed Draco, although Draco closed his mouth firm against it. Kissed Draco all the time. Draco liked that. These were the few things he was aware of outside of the abiding pain. 

Two days. 

Then the last, final day. 

There was no harried agitation about Draco's last day. He lay in their bed. Harry lay next to him, his body lined up beside Draco's, and very, very close. 

They waited. 

Draco could not smell, taste, hear, or see. Distantly, he could sense that Harry was trembling next to him, perhaps crying, but the awareness of it was so far away that it hardly felt real at all. 

In fact, nothing felt real anymore. Draco simply floated in the abyss of nothing and waited for the hand of beyond nothing that would drag him through the last barrier. 

In the remote desperation of it all, he spoke. Words, phrases, sentences that meant nothing but the touch of his own lips together. Things he wished he'd told his mother, pieces of the Mortem case he'd never written down, a recipe Ronald had given to Draco nearly four years ago, song lyrics to a lullaby Draco knew as a child, all the important things he wished Harry to know. Draco thought, _I am the only one who can hear this. I am the only one who has known all these things in tandem._

He lost the touch of Harry's body beside him, and figured that was it. Either his touch was gone, and his heart would follow, or he had already died and was moving on. 

He breathed in relief and let unconsciousness steal him away. 

Draco breathed. He was still breathing. 

Why, in the darkness, was he still breathing?

And there was light too. A dim gray light behind his eyelids. 

The feeling of 500 thread count sheets underneath his arms. 

A voice. 

Not the voice Draco had been desperately wishing for for weeks, but a friendly voice all the same.

"I sent him the letters! Why didn't he do anything about it?"

"What letters?" Ah, the voice Draco wanted. 

"I sent him letters! Didn't he read them?"

"He threw one into the fire."

The friendly voice let out a garbled groan. "Merlin! He's brilliant, but a blunt-headed idiot sometimes!"

Draco thought idly that they were talking about him. 

A smell reached Draco's nose. He breathed in deep. Laundry detergent, bergamot, a hint of lemon, a very faint whiff of distant sex. All the smells that Draco had been falling asleep to for nearly ten years. 

"Well," said Harry. Draco nearly cried at the sound of his voice. He never thought he'd get to hear it again, but here it was, broad and deep and scoping around the vowels. "Yes, he is that." His voice was also hoarse. 

_From crying_ , Draco's mind supplied, _over you._

"I explicitly told him that Mortem and _tarda amissi_ were linked. What did he not understand about that?" Draco placed the voice as Wilson's. Fair man, coming to Draco's deathbed, although apparently it was to shout about Draco's incompetency. 

He didn't mind. He was too focused on the senses in his body that had been deprived of him for months, finally trickling back in steady ribbons of awareness. Smell, taste, hearing, sight, touch. All his again. 

"Dunno," Harry said. Draco pictured him scratching the back of his neck. "You'd have to ask him."

"Right," Wilson said. A pair of loud footsteps aggressively approached where Draco was lying before something slapped him hard across the face. 

Draco yelped and fell off the mattress. Harry shouted, and more footsteps scuffled around the room while Draco laid on his face, afraid to move or open his eyes. After a moment, mild hands soothed across Draco's shoulders and carefully rolled him over onto his back. Someone's knees nudged Draco in the side as they leaned close and murmured, "Draco?"

At long last. 

Draco opened his eyes. 

_Harry_. 

Draco mouthed his name and stared up at him. Tangled black curls tumbled over Harry's forehead, his ears, his neck. Dark skin etched with lines and worry, splattered with freckles, and broken up by a nick on his jaw, a bolt beginning at his forehead and sparking over his eye and down the side of his nose. The planes of his cheekbones, the curving joint of his shoulder, the ridge of his clavicle. His eyes, behind glasses, green, green, so very green. His chin, set and marked with stubble. His sweater, stretched and loose, drooping off his frame to brush Draco's forearm. Bergamot, laundry detergent, the lemon that meant he'd been using Draco's shampoo. Something new that Draco couldn't place一a new body wash?

Draco lifted his hands, marveled that he could lift his hands, and pushed them into Harry's hair, starting at his scalp and running them back and back and back, before lifting his hands and starting back at the beginning. Harry's eyes fell closed and he dropped his head into Draco's touch. The lines at his mouth relaxed, faded almost completely away, before reforming back up into a small smile. Draco let his fingers trail down the sides of Harry's face, following the give of his cheek and the skin under his jaw. 

They were still lying on the ground and Draco could feel the hardwoods clearly under his back. Harry didn't seem to notice. And Draco, sprawled on the floor with Harry’s body draped across him and his coworker standing hesitantly off to the side, was so relieved that he could feel anything that he didn't even bother to complain about it. 

"Say something," Harry said. His eyes were red, and the circles under his eyes looked deeper from where Draco was lying.

"We should get married," Draco rasped.

"Well," Harry said, before promptly bursting into tears and falling forward into Draco.

“Draco Malfoy,” Wilson said from somewhere behind them, a fair amount of time later.

"What do you want?" Draco said, his face still buried somewhere between Harry's neck and his ear. He was, frankly, quite uninterested in anything that didn't involve rolling and rolling in Harry for hours. He had almost lost this. No, he _had_ lost this, and now it was back, and Draco wasn't going to let go of it.

"Draco."

"Nope," said Draco. 

"Draco."

No response. 

"Malfoy!"

"What?" Draco snapped, finally lifting his head. 

Wilson glared down at him with his hands on his hips and his cheeks ruddy with frustration. "What is wrong with you?"

Draco pushed himself up, Harry still on top of him, and scowled at Wilson. "What do you mean _what's wrong with you_? You're the one that sent me a letter that said 'will fix you.' What in Morgana's name needed to be fixed about me?"

Wilson threw his hands in the air and shouted, "Your illness, you idiot! The _tarda amissi_! I sent you a letter telling you that the Mortem case and _tarda amissi_ were linked. There’s a countercurse, you daft twit. You are, by far, the best versed on that ridiculous case. I _assumed_ that you would link the two immediately."

"And what was I supposed to link?" Draco rolled his eyes. "Mortem smuggled witches out of Europe to siphon their magic for his purity enchantment一what does that have to do with _tarda amissi_?"

Wilson was shaking his head vividly. "No, no. We got it wrong. Mortem wasn't the man; Mortem was the smuggling ring. The man was Adam Hornby."

Draco coughed. " _Adam Hornby?_ "

"Yes, quite ridiculous, I know," Wilson said. "But the point is that Mortem was the name of the ring."

"Okay," Draco said.

Wilson gestured at him to continue. "What does it mean?"

"Mortem," Draco said. _Oh Merlin._

Draco leaped up, knocking Harry off him, and ran to the living room. He was so busy thinking about _mortem_ and _tarda amissi_ and the _bloody interns_ that he didn't even think to revel in the fact that he was running on his own two legs. 

Wilson followed close behind him, his clambering footsteps distracting Draco from the thoughts fusing together in his mind.

Draco whirled around once he reached the desk Harry and he shared with the case files stacked up on it under a haphazard pile of _DADA Tutoring - Professor Potter!_ pamphlets. The desk was in their living room, crammed into one corner by a tiny window, because Harry had insisted on leaving the spare room free for their friends to crash if needed.

Draco never minded, but a free wall to plaster with red string and fuzzy photographs seemed appropriate just then.

Draco sighed. He’d have to make do with the living room.

Wilson hovered behind him, and Draco heard Harry’s bare feet enter the room.

”Harry?” Draco said, whirling around to face him. 

“Yes?” Harry said, his face puffy and his hands hung open at his sides.

”My wand,” Draco said, half turning. “Wand.”

”’Course.”

Harry left the room briefly before returning, Draco’s wand held out in his hand.

Draco crossed the room and pressed a quick kiss to Harry’s cheek before taking his wand. “Thank you,” Draco murmured. “Don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Harry flushed and patted Draco’s cheek. “Well. I’ll make tea.”

It was all very mundane considering the fact that Draco had nearly died, and then promptly came back to life. And the first thing he was doing happened to be finishing a case he'd been working on for months. Not resting, or snogging Harry, or calling his friends in relief, but going back to work. _Well!_ Draco thought. 

”That would be lovely,” Draco said, leaning in to kiss Harry one more time before turning back to their cramped desk.

”Okay,” Draco said to himself. He turned sharply to face the stack of files, and raised his arms out in front of him, wand gripped tightly in his right.

”So tell me if I’m wrong here,” Draco said, later. His head ached where his eyebrows were furrowed, and his arms had long ago gone numb from directing papers, photographs, and glowing links through the air with his arms. 

Wilson, sat comfortably on the couch, reclined to look at the employee log Draco had brought up. Harry sat on the armchair with his feet tucked under him, gazing off into space and holding onto Draco's abandoned cup of tea, as he had been doing for the past twenty-three minutes. 

"Robards went on leave in March," Draco said, waving his hand to draw forth an official work record with the attendance of all employees in the DMLE. "And Bailey stepped in immediately after Robards left."

"Right. Robards set it all up before he even left," Wilson said. "That's what I'm confused about. Robards knowingly, in advance, put someone in his position. How could someone have tricked Robards into handing over the DMLE for six months?"

"Well, that's obvious." Draco almost rolled his eyes before remembering that that was rude to do to anyone who wasn't Harry. "Polyjuice Potion. Robards could have cleared Bailey before he left, and then someone could've taken Bailey's place after he took up the position."

"Ah!" Wilson said. "Complete sense! Question."

Draco inclined his head. The ceaseless questions about pointless inquiries were a regular part of his work life. As earnest and level-headed Wilson was about his job, he was not precisely known for his detective skills. Actually, practically none of the Unspeakables were investigative geniuses. The detective work was usually given to the Aurors before the Unspeakables were even made aware that the case existed. Draco privately thought that the Ministry would be far more effective if the Unspeakables were tasked with more than trailing after the Aurors, cleaning up their messes. 

"How did Bailey's imposter get in so smoothly without anyone noticing anything amiss?"

"Well," Draco said. "Bailey is old. He was head of the DMLE before the man who came before Robards. No one really knows anything about him except for the fact that he's qualified enough to fill in for six months." Draco sighed and twisted his wrist to set his case files in a new order through the air. "And because he's filling in for Robards, he really doesn't have to do anything except oversee that all the case paperwork gets filed, so一oh!"

"Figure it out, darling?" Harry said absently from the armchair. 

"Bailey only has to oversee the paperwork, which means he knows about every case going in and out of the DMLE and Department of Mysteries. The two departments are so closely linked that whatever goes to the Aurors has definitely touched the Department of Mysteries, and vice versa." Draco paused. "Bailey came into my office once to ask about the Mortem case."

"Why?" Wilson asked. 

Draco couldn't resist rolling his eyes this time. "Because he was Adam Hornby. Considering this fact, it’s likely he wanted to push us off the trail, especially if we were getting close. No villain wants to get caught."

"Ah."

"Quite." Draco waved his hand through the air. "So. Adam Hornby一ugh, it’s still ridiculous一mastermind of the Mortem smuggling ring took over Robards' position in order to get us off his case. We can dig into how he got in there later."

"Tea?" said Harry. 

Draco glanced to Harry, who was still staring vaguely out the window, and smiled. "Just a minute, darling, thank you."

Draco turned back to Wilson and continued. "The interns have been leaking the case information to the Aurors since we first opened it, which is why he would’ve gone after Robards instead of Sullivan. It’s further removed, attracts less suspicion. Now, what do we know about the case?" Draco flicked his hand and the Mortem case records crowded around him in a ring of legal papers. 

"I can cover this," Wilson said. "Here's what we know. There's a smuggling ring in Brooklyn, New York, United States, and MACUSA is a wreck. They haven't done anything substantial in the last two decades aside from shuffle in fresh rounds of corrupt politicians every four years. The Mortem ring is smuggling young witches, exclusively pureblood. He's taking them to New York and collecting them there to perform a purity enchantment. His goal is to... purify himself, I suppose. The motivations aren't quite clear.

"I think he believes that if he purifies himself, using the magic cores of the young witches, then he will be absolved of everything he did to get them there. Their purity will grant him the title of一the report says "Jesus." What is that?" Wilson pulled one of the paper's held up by Draco's magic a little closer. 

"Jesus is a Muggle Biblical figure," Harry said. 

"Right," said Wilson. "He believes he will become some sort of wizarding Jesus."

"Well!" said Draco. 

"The purifying enchantment is called _tarda amissi mortem_ . _Mortem_ alone means dead. _Tarda amissi_ alone means "the loss is slow." But when you put them together, it means "the loss of a slow death," which is, effectually, what he is performing on those witches in order to christen himself. He’s using it to drain them of their senses, their lives, vitality, and magic." Wilson pushed himself off the couch and walked between Draco's webs of levitating case information. "Neither acts as a curse on its own," Wilson said. "They must be together. The illness you had," Wilson looked pointedly at Draco, "Was _tarda amissi mortem_ , whether or not the Healers divulged that to you."

"It wasn't the Healers," Harry said. 

Draco and Wilson both looked to him. 

"Draco's assigned Healers didn't know what it was," Harry said, his eyes flicking between them. "Hermione figured it out. She works in the children's ward normally, but she was the one that told me it was _tarda amissi_."

"Your friend? And she's a children's Healer?" Wilson asked. Harry nodded. "Then she was likely sparing your feelings by not sharing the whole Latin phrase. Assuming that death was inevitable, she likely assumed it would be easier for everyone if the illness didn't explicitly say death in its name."

Harry looked down at his hands, where he was holding onto Draco's full mug in one hand, and his own empty mug in the other. "Yes, I can see how she would do that," Harry said quietly. "Although I wouldn't have looked up the Latin phrase anyway. I didn't even know it was Latin. I just thought it was a curse."

"All spells, hexes, charms, jinx, and curses are based on Latin," Wilson said, as if it were obvious. It was obvious, but Draco shot him a stern look anyhow. 

"Well," Harry said. "Alright."

"Anyway," said Draco. "The point is, neither part of the phrase can exist without the other. So when Adam Hornby tagged his smuggling ring _mortem_ to his employees or supporters, he was inadvertently giving a clue to the nature of his own evil."

"But what about you?" said Harry. "This all makes sense, but how did this curse get into Draco's body?"

Draco turned on his heel and began to walk through the living room, weaving through his papers and photographs. "Fair question. I drank his coffee."

"You what?" Wilson said, raising his eyebrows.

“You don't even like coffee,” Harry said.

“Well,” Draco said, rubbing his forehead with the heel of his hand. “Yes. I won’t go into the details, but it can be fairly said that I didn’t have much of a choice.”

Draco watched as Harry’s grip on their mugs tightened. “But why you?”

Draco sighed. “Haven’t a clue.”

"Take a break," Harry murmured to him, tugging on his hand and pleading him with his eyes. "Let Archie go home."

"Archie?"

"Archie Wilson." Harry hit Draco's shoulder. "Git. Tell him to go home."

Draco shook his head. "We need to get this all sorted and filed. Figure out why he gave _me_ the damn coffee before he goes off to give it someone else."

"No." Harry's hands on Draco's tightened painfully. "Draco, stop. You almost _died_. And now you're running about after some crazy case? You need to rest. And Wilson needs to rest too. His eyes are bugging out of his head. I think he only asked to use the loo so he could take a forty second nap before he has to come back and try and keep up with your brain."

Draco smiled a little bit. "My brain is very fast."

"Very," said Harry, and pulled on Draco's hand. Draco moved with him, barely a step towards the bedroom door. He knew what Harry wanted, and knew that he was right. They both needed to sleep, to rest, and know that for once一for the first night since Draco had collapsed onto the coffee table一Draco wasn't in danger of dying in his sleep. "I bet it'll be even faster tomorrow."

"Okay," said Draco. There was no reason not to give in. 

"Really?" Harry dropped his hand, and Draco reached forward to take it up again immediately. "You'll go to bed?"

"Yes. I'll turn down the covers. Would you mind telling Wilson I crashed and you put me to bed? If he sees me up, he'll want to continue."

Harry blinked. "Yes, of course. Thank you."

"Thank _you_ , darling."

“When will you go back to Hogwarts?”

Harry lifted his head off the pillow and stared at Draco. “Hogwarts?”

“Yes.” Draco wrapped his arms tight around Harry’s waist and pulled himself closer to Harry’s side. “To teach. Won’t McGonagall want you back?”

Harry blinked at him for a long moment before settling a hand on Draco’s head. His fingertips rubbed idly through Draco’s hair. “I suppose so.”

Draco kissed Harry’s shoulder. His skin was warm, so warm, and nice and smooth, and Draco wanted to cover all of it, again. “So when do you go back?”

Harry finally looked away from Draco, shifting to stare up at the ceiling. “I don't know. I didn’t think I was going to go back.”

Draco pulled back. “What? What do you mean?”

Harry huffed. “You were supposed to be dead by now. I wasn’t planning on going back to teach at Hogwarts.”

“At all?”

“Probably not.”

“You weren’t going to even go back for the new term?”

“Draco!” Harry said, loud. “Did you hear me? You were going to be dead!”

Draco set his head carefully back down on Harry’s shoulder. “Right. Should we talk about that?”

Harry sighed, and Draco relished in the noise. It still hadn’t quite sunk in to him that this was all his again. Harry’s irritated puffing, the smell of his skin, the feeling of his collar bone under Draco’s ear. It felt new all over, like how it had felt when they first got together ten years ago. Exciting, and confusing, and precious. 

“I feel like I’ve lost you,” Harry said, interrupting Draco’s reverie. 

“I’m right here,” Draco whispered. He ran his hand down Harry’s chest, his stomach, thigh, before skimming his hand back up, and running it right back down again. 

“Yes, but.” Harry looked at him, his eyes hard and square. “I was expecting to go to bed alone tonight. You’re not processing. At all. Your mind is on this case, and you’re not thinking about the fact that you were dying for six months. And youーyou dying is likeーlike I was dying with you. I was watching you die, and you hardly seemed to notice, and it was killing me.” Harry shook his head a little, and his hair staticked up against the pillow. “You weren’t watching you die.”

Draco stayed silent.

“And now,” Harry went on. “You’re okay again, by some crazy miracle, and you still don't notice. You’re going on as if nothing’s happened.”

“I’m not,” Draco said, quiet. 

“But you are.”

Draco shook his head, and scooted up on the bed so he was nose to nose with Harry. “I’m not.”

Harry inhaled deeper and bumped his forehead to Draco’s. “Darling. I can’t hear what’s going on inside your head.”

Draco smiled. “I’m fairly sure you can, at least a little bit.” He hugged Harry close to him. “You always seem to know just what I’m thinking right when I’m thinking it. You somehow know what I need, right before I need it. And you give me everything I want, always, like you’d just been waiting for me to ask for it.”

“You’re deflecting,” Harry said, but he was grinning into Draco’s cheek and his breathing eased. 

“No,” Draco said. “Telling you that I realize. That I know what I almost lost. What _we_ almost lost. And I’m not taking it for granted.”

Harry’s face relaxed around the edges, and his eyes flicked between Draco’s, too close to look at both at once. “You’re not?” His voice was soft. Sweet and vulnerable. 

“No,” Draco said. “I’m not.” He rolled over to Harry, always closer to Harry, and kissed him. Whispering, close to his ear, “I’m not.”

“Earl grey?”

“Thank you so much,” Draco replied, holding his hand out to skim over Harry’s hip as he walked by, passing Draco his mug as he went. He flipped the pages of the case file he had spread across the kitchen table. 

Harry dropped a kiss on Draco’s head. “Don’t forget to give Archie the card from us, and buy him coffee for the next two years.”

“Archie?”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Your coworker? You’ve been working with him for years, he saved your life with some obscure ritual? Apprehended Adam Hornby last week?”

Draco hummed. “It might ring a bell.”

“It better,” Harry said, kissing Draco’s cheek as he passed behind his seat. “I’m off to work. Don't sign the card as Draco Potter, don't forget your tie, and don't worry about the laundry. I’m coming home at six, and I expect to know why in Morgana’s long tresses you were targeted by this Adam Hornby by the end of today.”

“Can do.” Draco smiled up at him, took a sip of his tea, and twisted to peck Harry on the mouth. 

“You’ve been saying that for a week,” Harry said.

Draco ignored him. Adam Hornby, in the depths of the Department of Mysteries interrogation rooms, was no longer his concern. “Give out lots of detentions today.”

“I will not.”

“Apparently you were the closest to figuring it out.”

“What?” Draco lifted his head from where he’d had it propped on his desk as he traced the rim of his mug. 

Wilson stood in his office doorway. “Hornby went after you because you were the closest to figuring the case out.”

Draco sat up. “Well.” There was a pause. “That’s so dull.”

“Dull?”

“Yes.” Draco spun around in his chair. “Where is the revenge, the dirty grudge? The complex and diluted motivation?”

Wilson shrugged. “Nonexistent apparently.”

Draco sighed. “Well, I suppose we can’t have everything.”

“No,” Wilson said. “Well, that’s all. Thanks for the card.”

Draco waved him off. “It’s honestly the least I could do. And I might also add that Harry instructed I pay for all your coffee for the next two years.”

Wilson’s eyebrows went up. “That’s a little on the nose.”

“Quite,” said Draco happily. 

Wilson turned to leave, but then turned back. He hesitated before saying, “Have you and Harry gotten married?”

Draco pretended to look confused. “No. Why?”

“Well, you signed your name Draco Potter on the card.”

“Did I really?” Draco said. “The curse must have addled my brain. I didn’t mean to write that at all.”

Wilson stared at him hard, before shrugging. “Suppose it won’t be too long before it’s true, will it?” 

Draco waggled his left hand in the air. “We’re going ring shopping this weekend.”

Wilson nodded. “That’s very nice.”

“Expect an invitation within the month,” Draco said, giddy and happy. 

Wilson smiled, and patted the door frame as he went out.

“Lasagna!”

Draco dropped his things by the door and moved through to the kitchen. Harry looked back over at his shoulder and grinned at Draco before turning back to stir something on the stove. Draco came to stand behind him and pressed in close, setting his chin down on Harry’s shoulder and pressing his palms into Harry’s stomach. 

“Smells so good,” Draco murmured. 

Harry laughed. “Like lasagna?”

Draco inhaled deeply. “Like tomatoes, and the heat coming out of the oven, and you. Plus garlic.”

Harry laughed again, louder, and Draco absorbed the sound in Harry’s belly through his fingertips. 

“You’re happy,” Draco said to him, smiling and curling into Harry’s neck. 

Harry tapped the plain silver band on Draco’s left finger. “Very.”

Draco lifted Harry’s hand in his from over the pan of cooking meat and turned it back and forth, admiring the dull glint of gold on his ring finger. “Me too.”

Harry turned his head to the side to kiss Draco, and Draco tasted sweet tomato juice, earl grey, mint, and a pinch of parsley. 

“Me too,” Draco said. 

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments are, as always, appreciated and adored. Wanna see more of my chaos? You can find me @drarryangels on Tumblr, or comment on my AO3 and wait for my (months late) happy responses.


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